


Coën's Song

by fannishliss



Series: Jewish Coën [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angels, Bible story paraphrased, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Gen, Headcanon, Jewish Coën, Jewish Holidays, M/M, Multi, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, The Witcher Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29198586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: Coën is a Witcher of the Griffin School. As befitting the code of the Griffins, Coën is generous, learned, righteous, and steadfast. He also belongs to a proud lineage stretching back into the misty ages before the Conjunction of the Spheres.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Jewish Coën [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164371
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first start at developing my headcanon about Jewish Coën. 
> 
> If you do not recognize his name, it is the Hebrew word for "priest" and it is the most common surname is Israel. So I think Fandom should recognize that Coën is somehow Jewish!! 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts -- whatever they may be. Please come play in this sandbox!
> 
> Thanks heaps to tsuki_no_bara for the beta read!

Hear, gentle ladies and lords--

The Griffin school was high in the mountains, so high, they said, that sometimes the keep was wreathed in cloud by day, and sometimes by fire at night.

Sometimes the face of their god passed by, a god the Griffins would not call by name, a god they called simply, the Highest.

The people who had fallen together into this world — elves, dwarves, humans, and others — brought their gods with them, and little else.

Elves had fallen here first — the chaos magic of the world felt natural to them. Dryads, dragons — these were elder siblings. Magic flowed into the elves like air, into dryads like water, into dragons like fire.

Humans, made of clay (so the Griffins’ oldest stories told) could barely feel the magic flow. They ground it up in powders, distilled it into liquors, and trapped it inside metal and stone. It hurt the others to feel the chaos caged, and wherever humans settled, monsters gathered, drawn to the wound in the world the humans carved with their cravings and fears, their knives and their lusts.

Monsters gathered, glutted on humans, propagated faster than slow human hands could rebuff them. Elves and dryads and dragons fled to their fastnesses, fearing the hatred humans unleashed onto all they did not understand.

Elven castles crumbled, dwarven great stones toppled. Dragons flew away and shifted outside Human perception.

Humans were left alone with the monsters, until they begin to breed mages — humans for whom the dire costs of chaos were palpable, malleable, coin they knew how to trade in.

Mages sacrificed the lives of the young for the few who survived, those who survived the dreadful first deaths, to live on, faster (yet slower of heart), stronger (yet stranger), better (yet somehow, undeniably worse). Monsters to fight monsters, the mages reckoned.

The Griffins knew better. Knowing themselves, they knew mages had not made them, not really. The Highest had called them into being, mixing human clay with holy fire and sacred breath. They did not know the name of their god (not Freya, not Melitele, and certainly not the cruel Flame), but they knew their purpose.

“This country is desolate, burned with fire: monsters devour it in your presence, overthrown by monsters. The destruction of foul creatures shall be for us, and we will purge away the dross, We will learn to do well, seek justice, relieve the orphan, and fight on the victim’s behalf.”

Griffins turned the tide with their inviolable code. They fought not out of duty or because their mages cursed them into being, but because they walked in righteousness.

After the mages brought down their keep in a thunder of ice and stone, the last Griffin standing was Coën, who bore an ancient name, a name of honor. When he saved, he gave thanks; when he slew, he set up stones and poured out oil and wine as an offering.

Coën was a Witcher, a mighty hunter before his god, and this shall be his song.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowed in at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier begins to learn the Griffins' ancient lore.

The snowpack held later into the spring without melting. The blizzards dumped mountains of snow, and the fierce wind had piled it into drifts as high in places as a man standing on another man's shoulders. 

The Witchers didn't mind, of course. Why would they mind, when the Path always waited? When the snow melted, monsters would emerge from their dens, ravenous as ever after the long winter. There was no rush, until the thaw, when human peasants would push deeper into the forests, foraging for mushrooms and tender spring greens but awakening an archespore instead, or going to fish in the lakes and rivers, ponds and swamps, gigging for eels and frogs and disturbing a drowner or a swamp hag.

The first day of spring came and went, and the path was still impassable. According to the habit of centuries, Vesemir, like always, had provisioned for an army. Barrels of food still remained, fresh as ever in the old spell-cellars underneath the keep. If Lambert had to distill a few extra batches of White Gull, that was no hardship. It just gave him an opportunity to try new combinations of flavors-- less licorice? more clove? a little of that Zerrikanian something that Aiden had brought? 

Jaskier had never passed a happier winter. Usually he had two options -- accept a court position and play for an increasingly ill-tempered batch of nobles, or, hire himself on at Oxenfurt and tutor their children all winter at instruments they failed to practice, teaching theory they had no real drive to comprehend. At least at the college, one or two youngsters with real talent rose to the top every winter to make the rest bearable. 

Here at Kaer Morhen, Cirilla was his primary student, soaking up the seven liberal arts as fast as he could think of topics that might benefit her to learn, while the Witchers challenged the breadth and scope of his repertoire in the evenings after supper. Geralt, of course, had absolutely no opinion about Jaskier's profession except to critique the accuracy of how monsters were depicted in popular song. Lambert tried to burn out the ears of everyone present by singing the lewdest verses to everything he could come up with. Eskel smiled to himself and sang, in his surprisingly sweet tenor, under his breath, in every language Jaskier knew, as well as a few others. Vesemir sat by the fire, staring into the flames, chiming in with antique variations that made the scholar in Jaskier rush to take copious notes. Aiden tended to stomp clap along with the rowdier jigs, and honestly, his rhythm was excellent. Coën was even quieter than Vesemir or Geralt, listening intently, but dreamily, committing everything to his prodigious memory. 

Although he'd marveled at the Wolves’ visual acumen (including spot-on memory for detail in maps, physical descriptions of monsters and the battles fought with them, and extrapolations of trajectories across multiple dimensions), the Griffin's recall of Jaskier's songs was phenomenal. Jaskier, of course, had trained his memory to hold hundreds if not thousands of songs and their variants. Coën, while not in possession of the surest sense of pitch, learned lyrics rapidly and sang with beautiful mastery of several languages. 

Jaskier had grown quite fond of the quiet, studious Witcher. The mages who’d attacked Kaer Morhen (those who survived) learned from their errors, wiping Kaer Seren off the face of the rock to which it clung — in an avalanche that struck in the depth of winter, in the middle of the night, carrying off every last Griffin but one. Coën’s home and his entire brotherhood, every trace of the School of the Griffin was gone, except for Coën. Jaskier could hardly comprehend how the Witcher went on with his life. 

“The Griffin code,” Geralt murmured into Jaskier’s ear, as they lay in their fur covered bed late one night. “Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly upon the Path,” Geralt said. 

“I thought Vesemir said Witchers don’t have a code,” Jaskier replied. 

“Vesemir can say whatever he likes,” Geralt retorted. 

“You have a code,” Jaskier said. “I’ve seen it in action.” 

Geralt snorted bitterly.“You’re the only one.” 

“Lies,” Jaskier sighed. “Witchers know right from wrong the same as anyone.” 

“Every Witcher walks his own Path,” Geralt intoned.

“What about the Cats?” Jaskier said, hoping to prod Geralt into revealing the opinions he kept hidden out of respect to Aiden. 

“Cats may be a little edgy — though Aiden is not any worse than Lambert, that I’ve seen,” the Wolf muttered. 

“But the Griffins?” Jaskier said, coming back around. 

“Very high minded,” Geralt said.“Much good it did them. Huge library, visited once or twice — all gone now.” 

“Mm,” Jaskier said, truly pained by the loss of all that knowledge. 

“You should ask Coën what he remembers,” Geralt said. 

“Oooh,” Jaskier said. “Would the witch let me capture his words using one of her memory stones?” 

The applications of xenovox technology fascinated Jaskier, though Geralt didn’t think Yenn or Triss were all that keen on sharing their secrets. 

“Better take dictation. Something to do over long winter days.” 

Jaskier had a good enough memory of his own, but as a spy, he’d devised a shorthand to take down the exact words he overheard, and keep it safe from prying eyes. 

“True, no point in recording without transcribing, and if I’m transcribing, I might as well be analyzing as I go.” 

“Hm,” Geralt said, falling asleep. Lying under the furs of his own bed, Jaskier safe in his arms, Geralt fell asleep sometimes mid-sentence — the only place in all the world he felt safe enough to relax. 

The next day, Jaskier caught Coën in the kitchen.Coën often cooked for himself, citing certain dietary rules that as a Griffin he still tried to observe. Still, Jaskier was puzzled to see that Coën was making bread. 

“Eskel just baked,” Jaskier noted. “Are you making crackers?” 

“Special bread for this time of year,” Coën said.“For a week after the full moon after the equinox, we eat this bread.” 

“Nothing but bread?” Jaskier asked.Witchers in winter were big eaters, putting on weight to last them over the rest of the year on the Path. 

“No other grains,” Coën said.“Nothing that might sprout or rise on its own. No beer,” he said with a smile. 

“Wine then!” Jaskier smiled. 

“Wine,” Coën said.“Sweet wine.” 

“Why?” Jaskier asked. 

“It’s a Griffin thing,” Coën said. 

“I’d like to know if you’d like to share,” Jaskier said. 

Coën sighed. “It’s a long story.It goes back centuries, millennia some say, to before the Conjunction.” 

“Before the Conjunction?” Jaskier said, surprised. Very little of human history from before the Conjunction persisted in memory; life wherever the humans had lived before must have been very different. 

“Yes,” Coën said.“We Griffins hunted knowledge, especially the most ancient lore.We gathered it up wherever we found it and tried to make sense of it. Some of us knew our lineage back through the ages, back to another world, back to the very birth of our race.We savored that knowledge and treasured it up.” 

“The Wolves only care about monsters,” Jaskier stage-whispered. 

“I know,” Coën whispered back with a wry smile.“How many bestiaries does one library need?” 

The two scholars chuckled for a moment. 

“If you want to learn, I will teach you.”

“I’d very much like that.” 

The next evening, after sunset, everyone in the keep met for supper, and Coën led them in a long dinner — everyone, even Ciri, drank four cups of wine, as Coën explained how the Griffins’ god had led their ancestors out of slavery back in the distant past. 

There were special herbs to eat, some to dip in salt water, and questions to ask and to answer. 

“Why is this night different from all other nights?” Ciri asked (Jaskier and Coën had prompted her). 

“On this night, we celebrate our freedom, and the god who loved us enough to free us from slavery,” Coën answered. 

The Witchers around the table felt the solemn weight of Coën’s words. None of the Wolves had ever felt truly free.They were thrown as children into a pitched battle with death, a war they knew they would one day lose. And yet no Wolf ever strayed from the Path. They fought and fought until they could fight no more. 

The Griffins had known a different way.They had walked the Path in freedom, with the hopes of freeing others. They worked for their coin like any Witcher, but gave their best effort without fee to widows and orphans.They thanked the maker of the world for the strength they had been given,unlike the Wolves who often saw themselves as cursed. 

The Griffins were gone now, except for this one.The Wolves and their family sat in Kaer Morhen while the wind howled through the ruins around them. 

Coën, Jaskier, Geralt, Cirilla, Yennefer, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert and Aiden — all lifted their cups, the last cup of the evening. 

“Next year in perfect Freedom!” Coën shouted, and they all joined in. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt meet Coën's special friend

Nearing the end of autumn, or the beginning of winter, more and more the surviving Witchers of the Continent migrated north towards Kaer Morhen. For Jaskier and Geralt it was a treat to run into them in the forests of Kaedwen, where they could compare notes on the supplies they’d been laying in for the winter, and what they reckoned they might need to cart up the mountain (or portal in with the help of one of the sorceresses). 

Monsters were never entirely rare, but throughout Kaedwen in late autumn, they were certainly scarce on the ground, as some of the most skilled and experienced hunters the Continent had ever seen, drifted in a leisurely fashion across the landscape, knowing they were almost home. 

Even Jaskier, that noted sybarite, relaxed into Geralt’s familiar camping places as the Blue Mountains reared into view to the north.Roach seemed to sway through her ambling pace, in no hurry.If there were a harpy, griffin or forktail haunting the highest peaks of the mountains around the keep — well, they weren’t in range as yet.Nothing to worry about but a bit of frost in the hair upon waking of a morning, a chill that would burn off well before noon. 

So it was a shock to come upon a monster in the foothills, and not just any monster, but one that stopped Geralt cold, the likes of which he’d never seen. 

Jaskier, for his part, stood aghast, mouth gaping in wonder.Not at the shocking sight of something so uncanny — for he’d long become inured to the uncanny — but the sheer, mindbending beauty of the thing. 

“What is it?” Jaskier barely breathed, knowing that Geralt would hear him. 

Geralt didn’t even bother to grunt, his eyes dilated fully at the thing they saw hovering in the peaceful clearing before them. 

It was one of their favorite campsites, a nice clearing in the woods, a Witchery distance from the main road, near a sweet-running stream, and frequented by deer and the like, a good day’s ride from the nearest village. It was a place they’d camped many times over the years, and sometimes they would find a brother Witcher already there, promising hearty company and laughter around the night’s campfire. 

To find a monster, hovering in the air, making the forest brilliant with the shafts of light that darted from its wings — it was shocking. Another Witcher (Letho or Aiden or Lambert) might have simply drawn the silver sword and charged to engage. 

Not Geralt.Jaskier knew his dearest heart was an absolute foamer for monsters.He would no sooner raise a sword against one he’d never before encountered (unless it was threatening to devour him) than he would against Jaskier’s old Granny. (Jaskier’s old Granny, the Baba of Lettenhove, was known to lure bandits and rogues to their deaths by way of an edible cabin in the woods, but no more of that.) 

“Geralt…” Jaskier breathed in horror, reaching for his Witcher’s hand. 

“Fuck” Geralt answered, for he’d seen it too— Coën’s kit, tidily arrayed along the long flat rock that stuck out into the stream. 

Meanwhile, the thing still hovered, unreal and mindshattering, yet devastatingly there. 

Tentacles of light and fire seemed to writhe around it.Slow wings of rainbow beat in pairs, holding it up.Here and there, eyes stared unblinking, golden and round and fiercer even than lions, eagles, wolves or Witchers. 

Something like a shining wheel of golden fire hovered near the ground, bearing up the all-too-human feet of the thing, that burned like molten gold and were not consumed. 

Then, they saw, and seeing, refused to comprehend. 

Coën had been taken up by the thing, and hung in a pair of its arms. They could barely make out glimpses of their friend, as the flashing wings mantled around him, and fierce faces of beasts and human beings coalesced to stare down at them, and vanished in sheets of rippling light. 

Geralt’s silver sword was in his hand, his equanimity challenged by seeing his friend in peril. 

“Fear not,” a voice rang out, and Jaskier shook his head, confused. The voice was loud and clear, but not made of sound.It reverberated through everything and wasn’t coming from inside his head — it simply was. 

Then the wheel of fire that was nearest to the ground began to ascend, and Jaskier saw there were other wheels — higher, up in the tops of the trees where the things’ wings reached. 

“This one walks with the Highest,” the strange voice said, and Coën stepped down off the wheel, and the tentacles of light lowered him gently to the earth.His skin was shining like the sun, and Jaskier had to look away.Even Geralt looked away.The light shone brighter and brighter in the clearing, till Jaskier sank down and put his head between his knees, and the light was as loud as a roar, and then it was gone. 

Coën stood in a shower of red hot coals, that floated all around him and burned upon the ground, but the grasses of the clearing were not consumed. 

Geralt sheathed his silver sword, but Jaskier was still blinking, trying to see what Coën looked like — shining like a man standing in a furnace, as he bent to pick up his mantle — a white linen mantle — imagine such a thing being carried by a Witcher! and threw it around himself — a mantle white as snow. 

“Well met,” Coën cried out.“Geralt, Jaskier — don’t be afraid.” 

“Fuck,” Geralt repeated. 

“Here, your silver sword —“ Coën said. 

So Geralt drew it again, and Coën gripped it, to no ill effect. 

Eventually Coën put on the rest of his clothes and they all sat down and Geralt made a fire and Jaskier made some tea and added a hefty shot of vodka for himself. 

“What, if you don’t mind me asking, old friend,” Jaskier sputtered, “what in Melitele’s rapturous embrace, what under every spray of milk from her glorious tits, was that thing.” 

And Coën blushed. Coën who was a decade older than Lambert, whose soft curls were just a bit darker than Jaskier’s brown; whose brown-gold Griffin eyes had been gentle, sad and wise for as long as Jaskier had known him, blushed. 

And said, “That was my throne, Gevurael.” 

“Throne?” Geralt rumbled. “Be a little less opaque, Griffin.” 

“A living creature of my god,” Coën said, casting his eyes to the ground, and bending his head a little. 

Jaskier, a companion of Wolves, had hardly ever seen a Witcher bow, and was surprised to see what it looked like. 

“You have a creature, that travels about on rainbow wings, on fire, that speaks like the world is speaking…” Jaskier began, and realized he had shifted into poetry. 

“Ze has come to me in dreams, since I was but an infant,” Coën said.He had the softest smile on his face. “Ze gave me comfort when I was afraid. I knew ze was real, but I didn’t know how I knew.Ze was the one who sent me away from Kaer Seren the night before it was destroyed.” 

Coën’s brow was troubled, but only for a moment.“Ze promised that my people were carried to be with our god, though my destiny is still to walk this Path.”

“Wow,” Jaskier said.It was good he was already sitting, or he felt like he would have fallen. 

“It was a god?” Geralt asked. 

“No,” Coën frowned.“Sent by my god.To comfort me.” 

“Comfort you?” Jaskier asked. 

Coën blushed again. 

“Oh!” Jaskier said. “Really!” 

Geralt’s lip twitched.“So that’s the secret of your famous chastity.” 

Coën sat up straight.“Gevurael is my throne, and all that is of our god is holy,” he said primly.“I don’t need to explain anything to either of you.” 

“Of course you don’t, dear,” Jaskier said, patting the Griffin’s arm.“Ze was extremely beautiful. If terrifying.” 

“Hm,” Geralt added, in what amounted to uproarious laughter from him. 

“Please don’t make light of this to the other Witchers,” Coën asked seriously. 

Geralt raised his eyebrows, but before the Wolf could begin to build out his Gwent deck at Coën’s expense, Jaskier stomped on his toe and elbowed him as well as he could through all the armor. 

“We wouldn’t dream of it, would we Geralt.” 

“Never,” Geralt said. 

“I rely on your honor as Wolves,” the Griffin said.His blush had faded back a bit. 

“You are really looking quite well,” Jaskier said.“Having a throne is excellent for the skin, it seems — you really have quite a glow!” 

Coën frowned and smiled and didn’t seem to know quite what to say. 

Geralt patted his pocket where he kept his Gwent deck. He’d wait to blackmail Coën when Jaskier was looking another way. 

“You truly are good friends,“ Coën said gracefully, and Geralt sighed and forgot his plans. 

Some winter nights at Kaer Morhen, Coën would disappear for a day or two out in the snow, and on those nights, hanging sheets of rainbow light were seen to dance across the heavens, and Coën would return all aglow with a deep peace in his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, Coën's friend is one of the "chayot HaKodesh" or living creatures, such as the ones Ezekiel saw, aka a "Chariot"... "Throne" may be a bit anachronistic. I'll take concrit!


	4. Coën Flees the Mages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of how Coën escaped the destruction of Kaer Seren

_ **This account is set down by the hand of Jaskier, Bard of Kaer Morhen, according to the words of Coën of the Griffins.** _

The Griffins of Kaer Seren knew their god, and they walked their Path in righteousness, according to their Code. They swerved neither right nor left,took the coin they had earned, but cared for the widow and the orphan.The people honored the Griffins as their own, and they dwelt in peace. But the mages were jealous of the Griffins, fearing their strength and Destiny’s favor to the Witchers, as they thought, for they did not acknowledge the Griffins’ covenant with their god. 

It was wintertime, and all the Griffins were home to roost, asleep in their beds, when the voice of the living creature spoke to Coën, calling his name. 

“Coën,” the voice called out.So Coën left his bed, and looked in the hall, but saw no one.“I do but dream,” Coën thought to himself, and lay down again. 

“Coën,” the voice called a second time.Coën rose again, went to the hall, and sought further, but found no one. Troubled, he returned to his bed. 

“Coën,” the voice called a third time.Coën rose, and went to the chamber of Erland, the master of the keep. 

“Come in, my son,” Erland greeted him. 

“Master,” Coën said, “a voice calls my name, but I see no one.” 

“Is it a voice you have heard before?” Erland asked. 

It was the same voice that had sung him to sleep as an infant; the voice that had comforted him when he left his mother and went to the Griffins; the voice that had led him through his youth, through the trials, and all his life on the Path; a voice of love and compassion that had never led him astray. 

“Yes,” Coën said. 

“Go then, in peace, and do whatever the voice says,” Erland said. “And go with my blessing, and may you prosper on the Path, and walk in the ways of our god.” 

Coën thanked his master, embraced him, and returned to his room. 

“Coën,” the voice rang out. 

“Speak, for your servant is listening,” Coën said. 

“Rise, and gather your belongings, and leave this keep before the sun rises over the mountain.” 

Coën was not afraid for himself, but for the Griffins who dwelt in Kaer Seren.But as the voice had bid him rise from his bed, gather his things, and leave the keep of his people, Coën went. 

After Coën turned his face away from Kaer Seren, he walked for three days. Then there came a great wind, and an earthquake, and an avalanche, and after the avalanche a sound of sheer silence. 

Coën shook, but he dared not go back, for he knew he must do as the living creature spoke. 

He went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and sat himself down under a solitary elm tree. He asked his god that he might die: “It is enough; now, my god, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.” Then he lay down under the elm tree and fell asleep. In the early light before dawn, the living creature touched him and said to him, “Get up and eat.” Coën looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones, and a jar of water. He ate and drank, and lay down again. The creature came a second time, touched him, and said, “Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.” Coën got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights to the valley beneath Kaer Morhen. 

He came to a cave, and spent the night there. Then the living creature came to him, saying, “What are you doing here, Coën?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Highest, the god of the Griffins; for the human beings and their mages have forsaken what is good in this world, thrown down our holy places, and killed many people of all kinds with the sword. I alone am left of the Griffins, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.”

The living creature said, “Go out and stand on the side of the mountain, for your god is about to pass by.” Then there came a great wind, so strong that it split the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces; and after the wind came an earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. 

Coën thought to himself of the roaring wind, and the earthquake, and the avalanche that had swept away Kaer Seren, and he mourned in his heart, for his god had surely not been in the wind, or the earthquake, or the avalanche. And he thought of the tumult that must have swept through the keep as it was crushed, and as all that the Griffins had made was destroyed, and he knew his god was not in that destruction.But when he heard the silence, his god was there. 

When Coën heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then the voice of the living creature came to him and said, “What are you doing here, Coën?” 

Coën answered, “I have been very zealous for the highest, the god of the Griffins, for the mages have forsaken our covenant, thrown down our altars, and killed all the Griffins with a mighty blow. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” 

Then his god’s living creature said to Coën, “Go, continue on your way to Kaer Morhen; when you arrive, tell the School of the Wolf everything that has befallen. Your god will yet preserve the way of the Griffin;you will not be destroyed from the face of this world, so swears your god.” 

So Coën set out, and there was Eskel of the Wolves, making his way up the mountain with his herd of goats.There were eleven goats ahead of him, and Eskel was with the twelfth, the one he had raised in his bosom like a daughter. Coën drew near to Eskel, wearing his mantle of dazzling white (for the living creature had touched it and made it white as snow).Eskel called his goats, and turned to Coën, and said, “You look like shit. Are you okay?” 

And Coën burst into tears, and fell on the neck of the Wolf, and the Wolf sat him down, and fed him with goat’s milk and waybread, and from that day forward, Coën was a Witcher of Kaer Morhen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is cribbed from the stories of Samuel and Elijah, with a tidbit or so from the story of Moses; see 1 Kings 19; 1 Samuel 3; Exodus 33, 34. 
> 
> No blasphemy intended!


End file.
